Room 101
by notime4stopsigns
Summary: Jim Moriarty is bored. He's read every book in his library-except that one... Inspired by George Orwell's distopian novel, 1984, Jim decides to make John Watson love Big Brother. Moriarty/John with underlying John/Sherlock.
1. Epilogue

_EPILOGUE-APPROXIMATELY THREE MONTHS AGO_

Jim Moriarty threw down the book he had been reading. _Fahrenheit 451_ by Ray Bradbury. He pulled a match out of his chest pocket, lit it, and threw it onto the book. He licked his lips as he watched the pages curl into ashes. _Oh the irony._ A spark flew, catching another pile of books which instantly began burning as well. He reached for his walkie-talkie, never taking his eyes off of the flames.

"Moran, there's been an accident in the library. It's on fire."

He was just about to leap off the couch and leave when a title of a burning book caught his eye. He hadn't read that one yet...how had it escaped him? He reached in and grabbed it just before the flames burnt the cover to a crisp.

_1984_ by George Orwell.

This could be interesting. He flipped through it, scanning the pages for something to grab his attention.

His hand hesitated near the end. _Room 101,_ he read.

His eyes followed the trail of dark of ink.

Finally he looked up, satisfied, his eyes gleaming with the malicious shine that always accompanied a perfectly lovely inhumane idea.

"Doctor John Watson," he declared dramatically to the burning paper around him, "I will make you love Big Brother."


	2. Chapter 1

_PRESENT_

John picked up the knife and examined the girl in front of him. It was Sarah. Sarah Sawyer from the hospital. He faintly remembered being very attracted to her. The feeling wasn't there anymore, especially with her looking so pathetic. Her face was bruised and bleeding, blood and saliva and tears all mixed together, her arms were pulled back behind her and tied to the chair as the previous victims had been. He realized numbly that he wanted to do this. He wanted to see how the knife would draw the blood, how it would pool onto the floor, how she would try to escape him but would not be able to, how she would try to scream, but her restraints wouldn't allow her even that.

He remembered Jim's words, about how he'd be rewarded for following the gory instructions. He licked his lips in anticipation for the food and sleep and affection, the soft warmth, and the light. He longed to be held by those arms and hands that had killed so many.

He picked up the knife and looked Sarah straight in the eyes.

"Good evening, Ms. Sawyer," he purred, and tilted his head slightly to the side, "You look as if you could use some assistance."

o0o

It had only taken a month to break his new toy.

Jim was almost surprised at the end of each day that Sherlock Holmes hadn't yet burst through his doors and rescued his poor army doctor.

But no, he and his pet were well hidden. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't find them until Jim wanted him to.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week he kept John in the basement. Every once in a while he would come down for a visit, have the man's wounds treated, and admire his work. John fought him the first three days, but exhaustion soon extinguished that little spark of rebellion. Of course, this had made things less fun, but Jim had found ways to amuse himself.

"Johnny-boy, where's your Sherlock? Not very reliable, is he? You'd think, with him being so incredibly intelligent, that he'd have saved you by now. But no, you're still here, in my..._loving_ hands. Do you think maybe, he doesn't want to save you?" John would usually growl or whimper or sob at this point and Jim would take a moment to relish the tortured noise before going on with his well rehearsed monologue. "Perhaps your friend was getting bored of you. Maybe he didn't want to hear you whining about the appendages in the toaster or complaining about the lack of milk in the flat. Maybe you were just too _human_. And he just couldn't tolerate it any longer. For all you know, he might have hired me to take you away."

Then he would leave and an hour later he would watch his victim from a luxurious hotel room through a live feed on his laptop. A different hotel room every few days, of course.

If John started to drift to sleep, the collar around his neck would give a sharp shock and wake him up.

Each day, John would be presented with a weapon, and then an innocent bystander they had pulled off the street. Sometimes they were targets of his other jobs who were doomed to die anyway. Sebastian had suggested the idea. "Why not kill two birds with one stone?" he had said.

If John did what he was instructed to do, he would be rewarded. He would be allowed to sleep (at least a few hours), eat more than just bread (Jim liked to use the classic forms of imprisonment), and drink as much water as he wanted. If he didn't, he would be beaten senseless by Jim's employees and would be forced to watch the person he had refused to harm be literally torn apart in front of him. It took John a month to finally show the victims mercy and kill them before Sebastian got to them.

A week longer and he began to enjoy murdering the poor final test was Sarah. John had passed with flying colors.

o0o


	3. Chapter 2

**_"After all, he's only human."_**

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

John stared at the big red mess he had made.

"Very _good_, Johnny-boy. It's lovely. Lovely."

He could practically hear the man grinning in his footsteps.

John was too hungry and exhausted to let his conscience out of the cage he had so easily locked it away in. Instead he fell against his captor, closing his eyes and wrapping his arms around the man's waist, letting his legs collapse underneath him. Jim ran his fingers through John's hair.

"Who do you love, John?"

The doctor let out a cough. His voice was stuck somewhere in his throat.

"Who. Do. You. Love. _John?_" Jim was impatient.

John opened his eyes and looked up at the maniac stroking his hair. "Jim. I love Jim." The words were cracked and hoarse, but it was good enough for him.

"Good boy, Johnny. Good, good boy. You can rest now, dear."

If he said anything else, John didn't hear it. He had drifted off to sleep in the arms of the most despicable man he had ever known. And he loved that man with all that was left of him.

* * *

><p><em>A MONTH AND NINE DAYS AGO<em>

John Watson was in the trunk of a car. He was sort of half-unconscious, drifting in and out of sleep. The pain wasn't too unbearable. Not to say it wasn't awful, but he had had worse. It didn't help much to open his eyes considering the trunk was pitch black and he could hardly even tell his eyes were open, but he tried to keep them open as often as possible. He counted how many broken bones he could feel when he was awake. One, two, three, four-five? Possibly more, but he couldn't move his body much anyway, being cramped up in such a small space. It took a while for him to realize his kidnappers had bothered to use handcuffs and a gag. As if he wasn't restrained enough already. The car hit a bump and it was like someone had turned up the volume of the pain to its highest notch. The sensation was violently nauseating as it washed over him. _That_ finally was too much. He stopped fighting his brain and passed out.

* * *

><p><em>PRESENT<em>

When John woke up, he was extremely disoriented. He had no idea where he was. He wondered briefly if he had been drugged. He looked around (meaning he observed what was in front of him, still too tired to move) and realized he was in a bed with sheets colored a disturbing shade of reddish-brown. He was totally naked, head resting on the bare chest of another man. That man was stroking his hair. Flashback to Jim petting him just like that. Killing Sarah. Collapsing in his arms. Stabbing her over and over. Telling him he loved him. Blood everywhere.

His head snapped up to look right into Jim Moriarty's gleaming brown eyes.


	4. Chapter 3

John opened his mouth to speak but Jim stopped him with a hard kiss.

"Mm, good morning, love..." He flicked his tongue out and licked John's cheek possessively. John just stared at him.

"A bit groggy today are we? Last night must have been very stressful to you..."

"Wha-what happened? Where am I? Why-?" He looked down at the sheets again. Something about them was bothering him immensely and he didn't understand why. He felt sick.

"Oh my, Johnny. Don't get too worked up. We wouldn't want to have to go back to training now would we? We're in your new room. We're flatmates! Isn't that just fantastic?" He was glowing, somehow very amused by what he had just said. It confused John, until he remembered.

Sherlock.

_This is a twisted parody of my life with-_

He found he could barely remember not being with Jim. Too much blood. Too much destruction. Too much madness separating those memories with this moment. It seemed like ages ago.

"So where's your room then?" John ventured, the question laced with traces of his past trust-issues (Jim thought he had worked those out of him by now...)

Jim grinned, completely masking his faint disappointment. "I'm afraid that information is classified." His fluctuating accent played with his words.

"Any more questions, Johnny-my-dear?"

John coughed. Jim cocked and eyebrow.

"The sheets."

"Oh yes. Oh I can't wait to tell you this one! You'll be so surprised!" He nuzzled up to John until the tips of their noses were touching. He whispered like it was a secret, "You see, your art was just so-" He feigned breathlessness and fanned himself with his hand, "-profound and mind-blowing, I just had to preserve it somehow. So I had Moran collect the major details and throw them into the washer with your sheets. The result was, as expected, just as delicious. I'm afraid it lost a bit of its..._mystique_...but the sacrifice was worth it."

His words only confused John even more.

"Art? What art?"

"Oh don't be modest, John..." He could hardly suppress his glee. "The _murders_ of course!"

* * *

><p><em>A MONTH AND ONE DAY AGO<em>

John was almost not surprised to see Jim Moriarty step out of the shadows. It was more like a "oh-of-course-why-didn't-I-think-of-that" moment. He should have realized. Sherlock would have probably figured out Moriarty was behind this just by the type of shoes his kidnappers had been wearing. Or something like that.

"Oh Johnny...look at you."

John mentally rolled his eyes. On the outside, he kept his gaze steady and didn't look away when the psychopath got closer. 'Closer' meaning only inches away. Anyone else would have been terrified-well, he was terrified-but he wasn't going to show it. He wouldn't give Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

_Stubborn as a mule as mum used to say..._

"Well, aren't you a brave little doctor? I'll bet you made a good soldier. Pity I won't ever see you in action. Oh, if only I had a time machine to take me back then, when you were still young and fresh." His voice turned cold. "Honestly, it's no fun with you the old washed-up hero you are."

The gag was infuriating. John desperately wanted to give a frank reply.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"Got something to say, Johnny-boy?"

He paused as if expecting John to actually say something. Then he reached down and tore off the gag. John licked his lips, trying to get rid of the rough feeling the dirty cloth had left in his mouth.

Jim Moriarty watched him completely poker-faced, as if bored of his prisoner's oh so human tendencies.

Then he bent down and pressed his own lips to John's.

John was too surprised by the sudden tongue being shoved down his throat to struggle.

Moriarty finally pulled away for air. Examined his subject's state of mild shock.

"_Moran_!" he called.

A taller, _extremely_ intimidating man poked his head into the room.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Hand me my phone."

"Where is it?"

"On the desk, stupid."

"_Ohhh_, of course, sir," Moran muttered sarcastically and passed him the phone. John thought he saw Moriarty wink at the tall man before accepting the phone and turning back to his victim.

"Say cheese, Doctor!" He snapped a picture of John. "Ooh, this what a cute photo! Look, Johnny!"

John blinked at the small screen. It was him, obviously. But it didn't look right. Besides the black eye and nose-bleed. There was something-

_Oh._ Red lipstick was smeared all over his mouth and chin. Moriarty must have been wearing lipstick when he kissed him.

"So Sherlock will understand that you're mine," Moriarty replied softly to John's unasked question.

Chills ran down John's spine when Moriarty said those words. He understood now.

_This is all just a really sick, messed-up game. Moriarty wants to mark his territory, and I'm the mark. He's acting like a jealous child. He's stealing away the one thing Sherlock's truly possessive about._

"No doubt he'll get the message loud and clear." The consulting criminal grinned as he straightened up, tapped a few buttons, and sent the picture.

"What now?" John asked, finding his kidnapper even more obnoxious than last time.

"Patience, Johnny. Patience."

The phone rang. Three times before Sherlock hung up. Moriarty blinked at John. His grin darkened.

"Sherlock Holmes is on the trail." He turned to Moran, throwing his arms up in overenthusiastic victory.

"Hook, line, and sinker," murmured his faithful employee.

* * *

><p><strong>HEYYYYYY GUYS. Okay so yeah, sorry for uploading like three chapters in a row and then not updating for forever but yeah here's the next chapter. Wait. This is the thrid chapter. Well you know, epilogue is stuff that happened. Yeah okay. Err. I'll be sure to update soon. :) I hope you've enjoyed it so far. Maybe John would have lasted longer, but I'd think that after a month with no sleep, being starved and dehydrated, any human being would crack. Mr. Orwell never mentioned a specific time length for Room 101 in his novel, <em>1984<em>, which this is based on, so I suppose it could have been years, or even just a few days. John cars so much about people, I think the most destructive torture for him would be to have to watch innocent people be brutally murdered with no way to help them but to kill them as humanely as possible. Pretty dark, but yeah, that's my brain. Heh. There ya go. If you got anymore questions go ahead and ask 'em. :) Party on, bro.**


	5. Chapter 4

_A MONTH AND ONE DAY AGO—BAKERSTREET_  
>Sherlock was...<br>…..panicking.  
>It was horrible actually. He didn't do this often. He usually was able to think straight—but John. <em>John<em>. John was in trouble. Was it his fault he was always getting abducted? No, no, he didn't have time to think about that now. John needed him. But Moriarty wanted him to come after them. It was an obvious trap, but _why?_  
>And the worst part was that he was finding the idea of a new game immensely exciting.<p>

_PRESENT_  
>"Oh, Johnny, yes—" Jim pulled out the 's' into a fluttering hiss, throwing his head back in pleasure.<br>John looked up at his lover just in time to see him arch his back gracefully. That was his favorite part. The hand on his head fingered his blond hair fondly. It was this approval he craved. This was all he ever wanted—to satisfy his darling master. There could be nothing better than this.  
>Jim looked down into his captive's blue eyes.<br>"How did you get so good at that, Johnny-dear?" His voice was soft. Usually this meant 'be careful how you answer this one', but he didn't think John had figured that out yet. Sebastian, however, knew and steered clear of him when he got this way.  
>John just smiled like an idiot.<br>"Lots of practice I guess." Naive. Stupid. Wrong answer.  
>Jim's voice became icy and sharp with a raised eyebrow.<br>"Oh, really? Who else do you suck off regularly?" And he pushed John's head away roughly.  
>Now, obviously this was not what John had meant at all, but any reference to past lovers and Jim got angry. It was his way of keeping John on a short leash.<br>Not to mention the man was bloody fucking insane.  
>Jim stood up and left the room without another word. He made sure the door slammed behind him.<br>On the security camera outside, he smirked at the look on his poor little killer's face. John was gaping at the door, still on his knees.  
>"Jim."<br>The psychopath didn't turn around, recognizing Sebastian's voice. Strong arms wrapped around him from behind. The smell of aftershave filled his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar smell.  
>"Jim."<br>Again he didn't answer. He didn't want to hear it. The tone of the man's voice made it obvious what he was about to say.  
>"You don't call me to your room anymore."<br>There was another pause, and then Sebastian continued with a sigh.  
>"I know he's a new toy, but does that really mean you can't play with me anymore?"<br>This sentence was tinted with a smile. A sad smile, but a smile regardless.  
>Jim rolled his eyes and, breathing in the man's scent one more time, pushed his arms away.<br>"Really, Sebastian, you'd think I'd leave you for a pet? He's nothing, just bait. Just part of the game. We've gone over the plan time enough for you to know this is just part of it."  
>He turned around quickly, grabbed Sebastian by his shirt, and pulled him over, smashing him into the wall with strength that one would not assume the man had just by looking at him.<br>Jim pinned him there with a kiss that could have knocked Sebastian off his feet—if he weren't being ground against the stone wall. (Down here in the basement, the rooms and halls bared quite a resemblance to a medieval dungeon.)  
>"Oh God," he muttered against his boss's lips when he dragged his fingernails down Sebastian's stubbled cheek.<br>Finally Jim pulled away, leaving Sebastian gasping for air.  
>"Like you said, Seb, he's just a toy. Eventually I'll get tired of him and throw him out." He grinned devilishly, eyes far away and murky. "Give my old toys to the less fortunate..."<br>He left Sebastian standing there with a raging erection and a horrible feeling that there were parts of the plan he hadn't been told about yet.

_PRESENT—BAKERSTREET_  
>Sherlock hadn't slept in a while. Maps covered the floor: x's here and there, every once in a while, a circled area. It was useless, tedious work, but nothing else could be done. It was either this, or sit and do nothing while waiting for Mycroft to call. And that could take <em>ages<em>.  
>He was honestly a mess, and he knew that. He was still in the same clothes he was wearing a month ago when he had gotten Moriarty's picture message.<br>He pulled out his phone to look at the text again. He surely must have missed something that was preventing him from figuring out the puzzle.  
>But all he saw was everything he had seen before. The light came from the right of John, and it was natural light, so there must be a window. So they weren't underground, at least not when the picture was taken. The walls were a dull cream color, like a hotel, but he had a feeling this was taken in some private estate owned by Moriarty.<br>With a job like 'Consulting Criminal' the man could have the world in his hands without anyone knowing but him.  
>Ping. A text. Sherlock's heart raced.<br>It was from Mycroft. Dammit.  
>Sherlock almost threw the phone across the room.<br>But he didn't. He did what John would do, and took a deep breath, counting to ten. Or at least he tried to get to ten. He got impatient by three and ended the anger management exercise there.  
>It worked well enough. He opened the text calmly.<br>_Pinpointed 15 possible locations for Moriarty Estate. He's got plenty of false leads, but one of these is it._  
>Sherlock let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding.<br>John could be less than fifteen estates away.  
>Relief flooded his body, until more anxiety and worry clouded his mind.<br>Ping. Oh what now, Mycroft? Sherlock rolled his eyes and deleted the text before looking at it.  
>It was a stupid move, but he didn't want to hear whatever condescending comments his brother had left out of the last text.<p>

PRESENT-MILES AWAY  
>Jim tapped his foot, waiting for Sherlock's reply. He was surprisingly patient about it too. He waited quietly for three minutes before sending for Sebastian.<br>"He isn't responding, Seb," he hissed when the brawny man entered the large office.  
>Sebastian leaned against the desk warily.<br>"He could be busy."  
>"Too busy to answer a message from me? I sent him a clue! I sent another picture! He should be begging for more."<br>The smaller man was fuming. He glared the vase across the room, as if it was the problem. Jim hated waiting for something that might not come.  
>Sebastian shifted his weight nervously.<br>"Can I see?"  
>Jim tossed him the phone.<br>It was another one of John. Jim had taken it right after his last kill.  
>That Sawyer girl.<br>Her body was twisted and torn and so drenched with blood that she was hardly recognizable. John stood over her, a shadow in the dimly lit room. The knife was clenched tight in his hand.  
>"Isn't it lovely?" Jim moaned softly.<br>The sadistic sound made Sebastian wish he were still his boss's favorite. It made him wish it were last June, when they had spent a whole weekend together without leaving the bedroom. The whole experience was played out like a war, a constant power struggle. That was what good sex was to Jim Moriarty. Sebastian had been sore for weeks afterwards, and he still had a couple scars as souvenirs. And he was an absolute masochist for wanting that kind of attention back.  
><em>We're sick. We're both sick. That's why we're perfect.<em>  
>He quickly shook the thought away. It was silly really, to believe in soul mates when his lover was shagging other guys and wanting to shag another other guy.<br>Jim was talking again.  
>"What Sherlock Holmes will think when he sees that picture. Will he feel like I do whenever I see it?"<br>_No, Sherlock Holmes isn't sick like we are. He's got John Watson-the good John Watson. But when he finds out what you've turned his John into...that'll kill him._  
>"Good God, Moran, I can practically hear you thinking."<br>Sebastian froze, actually fearing his boss for the first time in months.  
>"You can be so jealous, dear. It's <em>heartwarming<em>, really."  
>Sebastian had picked up enough from the mad genius to hide his relief.<br>"I just want you to kiss me again...like you did this morning," he murmured longingly.  
>Jim looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Then his face composed itself into an easy smug boredom. He sighed dramatically.<br>"Well alright, Seb, we'll have a quick shag. But then I need to get back to work."

The quick shag turned into a twenty-four hour fuck-fest.


End file.
